The Man from Toronto, or How to Waste a Perfectly Good HitmanI’ll admit it: I went in expecting nothing. A Kevin Hart vehicle with a hitman premise, a mid-pandemic shoot, and a reported $75 million budget that somehow still looks like it was cobbled together in a high school AV club. What I didn’t expect was how aggressively
The Man from Toronto would make me question the very nature of cinematic alchemy—specifically, why some movies with all the right ingredients still curdle into something so inert.
The premise is gold: a bumbling entrepreneur (Hart) is mistaken for a legendary assassin known only as "The Man from Toronto," and must team up with the
real Man from Toronto (Woody Harrelson) to survive a weekend of increasingly absurd violence. It’s
North by Northwest meets
Lethal Weapon, if Hitchcock and Donner had been replaced by a committee of studio executives who’d just discovered the word “synergy.” The problem isn’t the idea—it’s that the film treats its own premise like a inconvenience, something to be rushed through on the way to the next explosion or Hart one-liner.

Take the opening act. Hart’s character, Teddy, is a failed entrepreneur whose marriage is collapsing because he can’t stop lying about his success. It’s a relatable setup, the kind of thing that could ground the absurdity to come. But the film never lets Teddy be anything more than a walking punchline. His anxiety isn’t humanized; it’s exaggerated into a series of tics—sweating, stammering, flailing—that feel less like character work and more like a checklist of “Kevin Hart Behaviors.” There’s a moment early on where Teddy, trying to impress his wife, claims he’s closing a big deal at a remote Airbnb. The camera lingers on his face as he realizes he’s just booked a weekend in the middle of nowhere with no cell service. It’s the kind of quiet, cringe-inducing moment that could’ve been the film’s emotional anchor. Instead, the script immediately undercuts it with a fart joke. Not even a clever one. Just… a fart.
And then there’s Woody Harrelson’s Randy, the titular Man from Toronto. Harrelson is one of those actors who can make even the most ridiculous material feel lived-in, and here, he’s doing his best with what he’s given. Randy is a hitman with a code, a guy who quotes Nietzsche between kills and has a surprisingly tender relationship with his dog. It’s a fun, if familiar, archetype—the philosophical assassin—but Harrelson sells it with his usual effortless charm. The problem is that the film never lets Randy and Teddy’s dynamic breathe. Their chemistry is supposed to be the heart of the movie, but the script keeps them at arm’s length, more like two guys stuck in an elevator than partners in crime. There’s a scene where Randy forces Teddy to help him interrogate a target, and for a brief moment, you can see the spark of something interesting: Teddy, the coward, is forced to confront his own capacity for violence. But the film immediately undercuts it with a slapstick gag involving a stapler. Again.